


la cura di un uomo

by royal_chandler



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Imported, LiveJournal, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-04
Updated: 2010-01-04
Packaged: 2019-01-30 12:14:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12653325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/royal_chandler/pseuds/royal_chandler
Summary: Holmes stiches up Watson.





	la cura di un uomo

**Author's Note:**

> Title translates to "the care of a man"

The release is sweet and the fall is immeasurable, everlasting and fantastic. The wind that carries him down smells of rose oil, sweat and sex—a euphoric incense. His breath is frantic, his heart ready to leap out of his chest and dance but Watson’s never felt more at peace. He’s taken from this blissful haze by the press of lips to his abdomen, the grooves and dips there. The same lips then move to suck right above his heart, brands the dampened skin with a feral smile.

Watson doesn’t want to but cracks open his eyes, stares at the ceiling in wonder. It seems closer than it did before. “Where are we?”

Holmes laughs. It’s a deep rumble that starts near Watson’s shoulder, climaxes at the lobe of his ear, “221B Baker Street.”

“You’re jesting?” Watson manages sarcasm as his body calms from the prior orgasm that had just left it unhinged. He turns his attention to Holmes’, considers the disheveled dark hair to be handsome. “I know that you sod. Weren’t we on the floor? I recall the fear of getting splinters in my backside.”

Licking at the shell of his ear, Holmes confirms this, “Yes but you blacked out. You’re extremely heavy when unconscious by the way. If I’d known that you would get so tired after a fourth go, I would have given you an amphetamine beforehand.”

“Swell idea. I’m sure that that would have gone over well,” Watson says, moans when Holmes’ partakes in sinful ministrations at his jaw. “God, Holmes. I _can’t_. How can you possibly want to go again?”

“I find you to be inspirational.”

“That’s funny. I find you to be incorrigible.”

“Properly put match I would say.”

“Oh would you,” Watson quirks a brow to conceal his surprise at ‘them’ being acknowledged. An acknowledgement of a relationship from the greatest conundrum he’s ever known, who would’ve thought? Using this as an opportunity, he takes the hint he’s been handed and pulls on it tight, not ready to let go. “What else would you say?”

A hand fists in his hair, while Holmes’ lips capture his roughly before speaking against them, “I long for you during every passing moment of the day.” The hand that isn’t stroking his blond strands moves to stroke his cock, it pumps faster with each word that escapes. “I love being here with you, only having the moon as a witness. I’d say for you to always come to me in my dreams and then by day I shall be well again. For so the night will more than pay the hopeless longing of the day. I’d say for you to let go, _John_.”

Watson jerks into the wrapped fingers with a cry, loses himself in Holmes’ hand once again. His best mate also catches the exhales and pants with his lips, tangles the endless benedictions and curses with his tongue.

This release is just as sweet and Watson knows that he’ll hit ground again but he’s not sure that the smile on his face will ever leave.

&&&

Holmes is incredibly _horrid_ with stitching. Inapt would be a generous and thoughtful understatement. His crosses are haphazard and honestly, a five-year old could do a better job at sewing his torn flesh back together. It’s mildly satisfying for Watson since the man is annoyingly brilliant at everything else he attempts to do.

Watson feels no need to gloat though when the needle sticks into an unaffected area of his skin, a region which it has not business being in, about four inches above the gash, “Ow! Bloody hell, Holmes, it’s not difficult! At this rate you’ll be stitching my elbow into my ribs.”

“Well then stop fidgeting, you’re as bad a reedy rabbit in winter,” Holmes says without looking up, hasn’t done so since he started to play doctor. However, he does grasp a liquor bottle that’s placed to his right, pushes it into Watson’s palm. His tone is playful, slips into his charming self with ease. “Drink up; you’re far less irascible when intoxicated, Watson. Almost endearing.”

“I’m not getting drunk to appease your hack job, Holmes,” Watson responds, quite affronted and taken aback. The man had to be mad to think that Watson would collapse drunk so that he could be mishandled—a malpractice lawsuit in the making. He would never sue but still—it was the principal of the whole thing. “I need to observe what you’re doing to prevent infection, gangrene…”

“I know what I’m doing, Watson.” He gazes at him with a misgiving expression, the crow’s feet at his eyes crinkling around brown in concern. “I may not have your clinical hands and your medical expertise but I am trying. It’s my fault that you’re in this situation, although I did warn you not to follow me.”

Watson rolls his eyes at that. When will this man ever understand that it goes both ways in this relationship, the sacrifice and willingness to be there for one another? There was no Watson without Holmes, there never would be if he had anything to say about it. Why did Holmes think that the rules only applied to him? The rules governed them both—they were both allowed to be foolish for the other. That includes Watson throwing himself in front of a revolver. He’d do it a million times over and he knows that Holmes would do the same in return. “A tad hypocritical, aren’t you?”

“Maybe. No more than to be expected, actually,” Holmes admits lowly and reluctant, pulls the needles before weaving once again. “I just don’t understand.”

It’s rare but Holmes’ confusion is earnest. He seems so dumbfounded and lost. Watson isn’t sure what to do with that, finds it completely unnerving, only asks what he can, “Meaning?”

“I don’t understand how you do it,” Holmes says, traces a finger across Watson’s midsection, slow and experimental. Watson can’t help the shiver that runs through him, the horses that pace within his stomach and stomp at him with their hooves, bewildering him with _feeling_. He feels like he’s out of his own body while Holmes continues in a whisper, “Seeing you this way kills me, makes me more anxious than I’m comfortable with. You know that I hate when things go wrong and yet my precise calculations always go astray when _you_ gather the impulse to save me. Watson, I don’t enjoy having to stitch you back together and I am as awful as you say but do let me take care of you.” He pauses with a swallow before finishing with, “It’s the absolute least that I can do.”

“Alright,” is the last word Watson utters until his skin is intact. It’s knitted imperfectly and the scar left behind will be jagged and abrupt but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

**fin**


End file.
